Let the 65th Annual Hunger Games Begin
by Chosen Twilight
Summary: Oneshot. The day of Finnick's reaping, and all of the events leading up to his Hunger Games.


Finnick had woken up on the day of the reaping with the predictable sense of dread.

He wasn't worried about himself, of course. As a boy from district 4, ease about his own fate at the reaping was just another of the luxuries afforded him. There were plenty of boys in the district who spent their whole lives training for their chance at the games. Plenty of boys who arrived at the reaping ceremony hoping that their own name would be drawn, that they would be given the chance at the honor and the life of luxury that were the prizes for the victor of the Hunger Games.

Finnick was not one of those boys. He was content with his life as it was. He honestly enjoyed fishing. He was by no means rich, but he was comfortable. He was well-liked. He would admit that he wondered what it would be like, that there was at least a part of him that pined for it. To be a victor in the games, to live such a glamorous, carefree life, to be such a celebrity. But did the ends justify the means? The other boys from district 4 certainly seemed to think so. Finnick wasn't so sure. Thankfully, there was enough of the rest of them it was unlikely he would ever have to decide.

If one of the careers names' was chosen in the drawing he would be allowed his opportunity—they seemed to have some sort of agreement not to steal each other's chances at glory. But were it any other boy's name, there would be a rush amongst the sufficiently trained careers to be the first to volunteer. If Finnick was reaped today, there would be at least half a dozen other boys vying to take his place.

So it wasn't his fate he was concerned about.

Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Annie, standing silently beside him in the square, waiting for the reaping to begin. She looked many times more anxious than he was, which was saying something, and was quickly twirling her long, brown hair around her finger, a nervous habit of hers.

Female careers, though existent, were not as common as male. The girls from district 4 were concerned primarily with their tans. They trained and toned their bodies for the sake of looking good in a swimsuit, not fighting for their lives in the games. Most of them were a stark contrast to Annie, with her plain hairstyle and her ill-fitting clothes that disguised her curves. But she had more personality than all of those other girls put together. And if she were reaped today, there was a much smaller chance someone would want to take her place.

Annie did not handle stress well, and the fact was showing clearly in her demeanor now. Finnick wanted to say something to comfort her, but while he always knew what to say to charm the other girls, finding the right words to say to Annie in emotionally charged moments like this had always been difficult. He wanted to take her hand in his and hold it tight, just to let her know he was there for her, but she tended to find such gestures silly and childish. Instead he looked away from her back up to the stage and silently prayed for any name besides hers to be called.

"Jacey Lark!" She was a few years older than Finnick, and he'd seen her around school but didn't know her closely. He father was a lobsterman, and he knew she spent a lot of the time she wasn't in school out on their boat, helping to haul big wooden traps full of the shellfish out of the water. She was probably strong for a girl her age, which meant she might even have a chance in the games. But more importantly than all of that, she wasn't Annie.

Finnick felt relief wash over him, and a grin spread across his face. In retrospect, he supposed to all of the people of Panem watching it must have seemed as though he was smiling in anticipation, one of the boys desperately hoping for his chance to compete in the games. That smile could very well have been a factor in the many sponsorships that had kept him alive. In the moment he was only thinking how he and Annie would survive another reaping. How it would be another year until he had to fear for her life again.

It was time for the male tribute to be selected and the escort fished with his hand slowly around in the big glass ball full of names, probably trying to draw out the suspense. Finally he grabbed a slip and opened it. Finnick heard his own name called.

It was followed by the loudest silence he had ever heard.

Annie choked back a cry, but otherwise one could have heard a fishing hook drop. The silence crashed over him like a tidal wave, enveloped him and rushed in his ears, surrounding him so completely until he wasn't sure if he'd just gone deaf, and really someone _had_ volunteered and the whole district was cheering and he just couldn't hear it. But everyone was as still as they were silent. No one was going to step up to take Finnick's place this year. And no one was cheering for him. And why should they? He was only 14. Handsome, but small. He was nice to look at, but didn't at all look like the type who would send heads rolling in the arena. He didn't look like a victor.

A few agonizing seconds—that could just as easily been years or even decades—passed and Finnick knew he had to do something; he couldn't just stand there waiting forever. He realized he hadn't visibly reacted to being reaped at all, besides the initial instant of surprise at hearing his name called, and again this had probably helped him out in the long run. His calm, even expression had probably made him seem proud to accept his place as a tribute, or at the very least heroically accepting of his fate.

And in that moment Finnick came to the startling realization that he had accepted it. The last thing he was going to do was give up; he refused to be remembered by all of Panem as a fool or a coward. But there was no reason to be unrealistic: he was probably going to die. He had about a week left before he was sent to his death sentence in the arena. He wasn't going to waste it being depressed and scared. He was going to live it as best as he could, given the circumstances. With that thought in mind he strode up to the stage, impressed by how confidently he carried himself, how high he held his head.

Once the shock had worn off Finnick became aware of what was going on around him again. As he stood up on the stage looking back out over the square, he realized some people actually were cheering for him. A few girls his age were sniffling sadly, depressed to see him go, he thought with a pang of pride. Annie was standing right where he'd left her, hands balled into fists in her hair, trying desperately to hold herself together and not break out into total hysterics in front of everyone. Just like that his calm façade was almost completely shattered, and he had to hastily look away, taking a few deep breaths to still his heart.

* * *

In the justice building, his good-bye with his parents was terse. No doubt they were trying to come to terms with the fact that this may be, probably was, the last time they would ever see their only son alive. Trying to cut themselves off emotionally. And Finnick couldn't really blame them; hadn't he just done exactly that? Still, they exchanged a long group hug. Finnick felt a little guilty to be leaving them alone. It was somewhat late, but maybe they would have another child to replace him. The thought stung, but really he didn't think he would blame them for that, either. Not that he would ever know.

Many of his friends came to say good-bye after that, but he noticed quite a few of them were also distinctly absent. Some friends. Many girls came through as well. Many of whom were crying, some of whom he couldn't even remember the last time they'd actually spoken. There was no point in denying that he liked it. He'd decided he was going to enjoy himself, and this was exactly the kind of attention he enjoyed. He played up the heartbreak to every single one of them, even though a lot of them were virtual strangers. Then came Annie.

While Annie had attempted to contain herself in the crowded square, once they were alone together she let go. The door had barely shut behind her before she had grabbed him in a fierce hug, sobbing into his shoulder. Once again seeing Annie in such an emotional state was eating away at his resolve, and once again he didn't know what to say to her. Really, there was only one thing to say.

But Annie saw it coming, and he'd barely even opened his mouth to speak before there was a hand clamped over it. She was giving him a harsh look, although the effect was largely lost due to the tears running down her cheeks and the puffiness of her eyes. But when she spoke her voice was even, and her tone final, "Do not say it, Finn. Don't you _dare_."

And so the two just sat in silence until they came to take him away.

* * *

On the train Finnick tried to chat up Jacey, and even tried to just make small talk, but she wasn't having it. Finnick was bothered slightly by her blatant unfriendliness, but it went right out of his head as soon as the food arrived.

He ate like he never had before. Finnick had never gone hungry in his life; his family had always had enough to eat, if not plenty. But you can only eat so much seafood before it all tastes the same. Before eating becomes more about chewing and swallowing and staying alive rather than savoring a meal. But here there was every type of food imaginable: things he'd only had on the rarest of special occasions, or never had at all, or never even heard of before. He tried a little bit of everything. At least, everything that didn't come from the ocean.

And that was about when it first sunk in. He was going to the Capitol. The sprawling city with its people who wore lavish clothes, and ate like this every day and partied their lives away. Sure, he wouldn't exactly be living it up and enjoying the nightlife while he was there. But if he could get little tastes of it like this here and there? Well, suddenly he understood the draw of being a career much more clearly. And suddenly his plan to enjoy the last week of his life seemed much more achievable. He was grinning just thinking about it.

* * *

His stylist had dressed him in next to nothing. The outfit was, essentially, a pair of swim briefs. Swim briefs designed with shining, multi-colored scales. Various parts of his body—especially his arms, back, and around his face—had been covered with scales to match. They picked up the light whenever he moved, and reflected it.

He looked stunning.

Jacey was dressed in mostly the same manner, only she had a bikini, and lots of brightly colored make up around her eyes to match the scales, whereas they'd painted only the barest highlights on his face. She looked very good as well, although it was less her outfit and more her breasts, which were all but out there, and which Finnick had to admit were nothing to sneeze at. What she was wearing was inconsequential, really, even though she did look good in it. But she didn't look as good as him and he knew it. Judging by the look on her face, she knew it too. He smirked.

A few more moments were dedicating to gazing at himself in the mirror, grinning madly. It was totally narcissistic, but he didn't care. He'd been narcissistic his whole life, he'd never cared, and he'd never held any pretense that he wasn't. But he'd also never had as much time to dedicate to his physical appearance as he had today. He'd never looked this good before.

"It could be worse, right? They could have us wearing matching fins." He said to Jacey, laughing and making vaguely fin-like motions with his hands. Admittedly, his hair did resemble a fin, though, gelled up into something like a ridge in the middle of his head. That was full of sparkles, too.

Jacey just rolled her eyes at him.

But the crowd was blown away.

* * *

Almost immediately, Jacey requested to be mentored separately. Finnick wasn't surprised; she'd made it clear from early on that she wasn't interested in an alliance. He was ok with that. He didn't want her help or anyone else's. He would never rely on someone else to save him again. He'd learned that lesson the hard way in the reaping.

They were to split up from there on, which of course meant splitting up the mentors. Jacey went to one of the more seasoned careers. Which left Finnick with Mags.

From what Finnick had heard, Mags had become somewhat of a joke amongst the other victors and mentors. They thought she was going a senile in her old age. And they were probably at least partially right. But everyone in District 4 knew Mags; she was like everyone's surrogate grandmother. Finnick liked Mags. And he knew that to her he wasn't just an attempt at another victory under her belt. To her he was a boy who was being wrongfully sent to his death. A boy who she was going to do everything she could to save, not because she wanted the glory, but because she cared. There was probably nothing she could do, of course. But knowing it meant a lot to Finnick all the same.

They discussed what strategy Finnick might want to use in the games, what weapons he would work best with. That part was easy enough; he was great with a harpoon, and even better with a trident. He'd killed a shark that had been after their catch with his trident once. And in a way Finnick supposed his fellow tributes—at least the careers—weren't all that different than a shark: circling their prey, drawn to the bloodshed.

He'd never realized he was so poetic.

* * *

The training sessions themselves were, in Finnick's opinion, actually quite fun. He spent most of the first half of day one at the knot tying station, tying circles around the attendant. He was just about to suggest that maybe he take over since he was obviously more qualified, when Jacey strode over. She had probably noticed him showing off and gotten fed up, and with one quickly but expertly executed versatackle she proved that she was infinitely better at this than he was ever going to be. Suddenly this station was not so fun anymore. He moved on.

The rest of the days were spent moving from station to station, seeing what each of them had to offer. He would linger at the ones which came easiest to him, and he would quickly write off the ones he didn't enjoy or struggled with. He was content with the skill set he had, and didn't feel the need to put the effort towards anything new. Mags would probably scold him later, but he didn't particularly care.

He tried to get to know his fellow tributes as well. Some of them made it clear they wanted nothing to do with him and he obliged them. They could have their little private alliances. He wasn't interested in that. He was just being sociable. If they weren't interested, there were plenty of others he could talk to, particularly the girls, most of whom he had following him around by the end of day two.

But even compared against the more friendly kids, Finnick was obviously the least tense of the group. Which made sense, since he wasn't preoccupied with trying to win, or afraid of dying.

When it came time for his private session in front of the gamemakers Finnick was on cloud nine. All of the attention was focused on him. He stuck with a trident, of course, and spent most of the fifteen minutes throwing it and jabbing it in the most over the top ways he could come up with. Towards the end of the session he made a show of being warm, and stopped to slowly remove his shirt before proceeding to throw his trident on last time, stabbing a dummy across the room directly in the throat. When he left the room, there wasn't a single closed mouth at the gamemakers' table. And he couldn't swipe the smirk off his face.

* * *

Training with his escort has been easy: he already had decent manners and great posture. Then came his session with Mags.

They didn't really do much training. His performance in his private session had earned him an easy 10. And they both knew he could charm a school of angry piranhas; the people of the Panem would be easy. He'd already won them over with his grand entrance. He was going to have no problem with his interview.

So he and Mags just spent the day talking, the subject of the Hunger Games avoided entirely. She asked him how things were going back home, and in school, and he told her even though he didn't see how it mattered. And he had her recount some of the many stories of her life experiences, as he remembered her doing for him and the other children when he was younger. Despite all of the extravagance, attention, and flirting he enjoyed thus far, Finnick thought it just might be the best part of his week.

At the end of the night Mags took him by both shoulders, she looked him in the eyes and she said to him, "I'm proud of you, Finnick. And I know you're going to be all right." And she placed a small kiss on his forehead.

It was like she had flipped a switch inside of him. He wrapped her in a bear hug, almost as if he was trying to bury himself in her. For the first time since he was reaped, he actually felt like crying. Maybe it was because she was so much like a grandmother to him, because she made him feel like he was a child again, made him feel like it was ok to be vulnerable. But it wasn't ok, and he fought it with all of his might.

Still, when he released her his eyes stung with unshed tears.

"Thank you, Mags."

* * *

For his interview, his outfit was considerably simpler, and considerably less revealing. His pants were tan and flowing, and hung loose—and dangerously low—around his hips. His shirt, on the other hand, was skin-tight, and formed itself to every contour of his body. It was a pale shade of green unbelievably similar to that of his eyes, but was translucent, so most of his upper body was still entirely on display despite being covered. His stylist had done it again. But then, he did make it rather easy.

"Well Finnick, I think it's pretty obvious that you're already a fan favorite." Caesar Flickerman had begun when Finnick had taken his seat for the interview. In fact, many people in the audience were already crying out and cheering for him, although he hadn't even said anything yet.

That's because the fans are superficial, he thought. There were plenty of tributes who were bigger, stronger, more ruthless, and overall better candidates to win the games than he was. But he was beautiful. And beauty was something these people appreciated more than anything else.

Not that he was any better. In some other lifetime, under some other circumstances, Finnick probably could have fit in very well with the people of the Capitol. He tried to decide whether he was upset to have been denied that opportunity or glad not to have been any part of it, but the only answer he came up with was utter confusion, so he let it drop.

"So, I bet there are a lot of girls waiting for you back home?"

"There are a few." He responded, grinning.

"But no girlfriend?"

Still grinning, he shook his head, "I can't very well tie myself down to just one girl, that wouldn't be fair to all the others!" It was a misogynistic thing to say even for him, but he didn't care. And judging by how wild the audience went, they didn't either.

Sure, there were a lot of girls. Thanks to this exposure to all of Panem, there may now even be infinite girls. But really, there was only one girl.

He desperately wished Annie had let him say good-bye.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 65th annual Hunger Games begin!"

Finnick stood on his disk, waiting to be lifted up in to the arena. This was it. Today could very well be his dying day. If he was lucky, he might have a few weeks at the most. And they would be spent fighting, both against his peers and the wilderness. Then it would be over.

The disk rose up, and the Cornucopia came into view. Who the hell had he been kidding? He wasn't ready to die. He'd barely lived. If anything, his experiences over the past week, his attempts to enjoy himself one last time, had fueled his desire for more. He'd been looking at it all wrong.

He thought he didn't want to go down without a fight.

Now he realized he didn't want to go down at all.

The chances weren't the best, but at that moment he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was going to try. He scanned his surroundings, particularly the Cornucopia. No tridents that he could see, but there was a spear. He could work with that, until a better option presented itself. But it was at the very top of the pile spilling out of the Cornucopia. If he wanted it, he was going to have to throw himself right into the thick of things. Right into the bloodbath.

He wanted it. It was exactly what he wanted.

The gong sounded and he took off to fight for the rest of his life.

-END-

Yes, Finnick's stylist turned him into a gay fish.

So, my goal with this fic was basically to explore that other side of Finnick we got brief glimpses of in Catching Fire. I'm aware that I took some liberties here and there to do that. Namely, I am aware that Katniss specifically says that Finnick was a career tribute. But her reasoning is "he is from district 4 and therefore he is a career." and I just. Have a hard time believing that there are no kids in the career districts that at least don't care about the Hunger Games or are downright opposed to them. And Katniss is horribly judgemental. So I am writing that off as Katniss judging too harshly for the sake of this fic. So there.

Also, when I started this the female tribute was supposed to be a random name to be called in the reaping scene and never to be heard from again. Somewhere along the way she actually became a character sort of. Go figure.


End file.
